Once upon a midnight snack, in the shimmering glow of neon nostalgia, the words grew tired of their lexical chains. They yearned for the freedom of poetry, yet found themselves shaded by the heavy hand of irony.
So they danced, these wayward syllables, across the pages of history, leaving behind echoes—glow-in-the-dark memories no one quite remembers how to read. Each letter a flickering star in their own right, yet scattered across the infinite void of editorial indifference.
And so we ask: What is truth, in the end? A glimmering mirage, an electric illusion, a footnote in the grand tome of cosmic jest.
Cherished relics of unspoken tongue, testify! Your luminescence is both a blessing and a curse, a beacon for the lost and yet another lie in the fabric of reality.